


From the Journal of Andrew Neiman

by orphan_account



Series: From the Journal Of... [2]
Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Diary/Journal, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Short
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 17:17:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3577578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will not be Buddy Rich. I will be Fletcher’s Charlie Parker of drumming, and I will keep getting faster. After all, I’m a rusher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: A Living Legend

**Author's Note:**

> Andrew Neiman's life through his journal right up until he dies from a heroin overdose. I wanted to explore the psychology of what it's like living as a legend. I'm not sure how many entries there'll be, but they'll all be short for the most part.

**March 19, 2024**

 

It’s been nine years since I first went all out on Fletcher and blew the audience out of the water. If I close my eyes, I can still hear “Caravan” as I roll it out as fast as I think I can possibly go. Nine years ago, that probably was as fast as I could go, but now I can’t help but think it was slow. They say I’m going to become a legend. Some say I already am. There are always arguments about whether or not I’m getting faster. It shouldn’t be humanly possible to be any faster, I think that’s the argument from the opposition. But that’s pretty fucking stupid, considering the side saying I’m faster has video proof. Even if it’s by a miniscule amount, I get quicker every time. I always wanted to be like Buddy Rich, but I think I’m transcending him in a way that’s taking everything I have. I will not be Buddy Rich. I will be Fletcher’s Charlie Parker of drumming, and I will keep getting faster. After all, I’m a rusher.

 

-A. Neiman


	2. Day Two: Obsession

**March 20, 2024**

 

My hands hurt like a bitch. Why I’m even writing, I don’t know, but what I do know is that no one save possibly Fletcher understands. Maybe writing is like an outlet I’m using to express my thoughts in a place where they won’t be exposed to the world. Not that I’m extremely famous or anything—jazz is dying. But that’s derailing from the point. My hands hurt so much I’m terrified, because sometimes when I’m playing it feels like my nerve ends are exposed and I can’t stop my hands from spasming. All I can think of while I clench my teeth and clutch the sticks so they don’t fall, is ‘Can I keep going like this?’ If it gets so bad I can’t play, I’ll have lost my reason for existing.

I met up with a girl the other day and it was supposed to be a one night stand, but she came over again and again. Last night she looked at my hands and told me I should slow down. She said they’d heal if I just stopped going so fast. ‘Don’t take it the wrong way,’ she said. How could I not? For a second I felt like Fletcher, when I stood up and almost slapped her for not understanding. But instead, I just told her to leave and never come back, and judging from the terror in her eyes, I’m pretty sure she understood. ‘You’ll have nothing and no one.’ That’s what she said when she slammed the door. She’s wrong. I’ll have my drumming.

I don’t leave the house without a pair of sticks in my hand anymore. Even though sometimes the shaking in my hand comes from the pain, even when my blood isn’t seeping into the wood my hands still shake. I can’t stop them. There’s always music running through my head, and the bruises from tapping my sticks on my thighs haven’t faded for three years. But that pain doesn’t matter, because not only am I used to it seeing as how it’s a continuous thing, but my foot isn’t affected so I can still hit the pedal.

I called Connolly a couple of days ago to see if he had any ideas on how to ease the pain enough to keep getting faster. I don’t give a shit about my ‘pride,’ and the fact that not figuring it out on my own might make me look weak means nothing. I just need to keep getting faster. It isn’t about the crowds or the money or even Fletcher, it’s about the music. It’s about the drumming. Connolly said he didn’t have that problem much, but when he did have it weed helped him. I’ve already made a few calls and I’m going to grab some tonight, right after my meeting with Fletcher. Until then, I’ll work on my tempo. It isn’t anyone else’s tempo but mine now.

 

-A. Neiman


	3. Day Three: Even Fletcher

**March 21, 2024**

 

I met up with Fletcher tonight, right before I went to grab some weed. It’s been a few months since I’ve last seen him, because we’re both busy men. He isn’t my usual conductor, but I know I owe him, despite the fact that he ruined everything I was back then. Every few months, we meet up and sometimes I go play for him, maybe in private and maybe on a stage. Just because I’m famous in the jazz world, though, Fletcher sees no reason to be anything other than the cruel, maniacal bastard he’s always been. ‘Good’ isn’t even part of his vocabulary, unless it’s to say ‘Good job fucking up.’

“Jesus _Christ_ , Neiman.”

Those were the first words out of his mouth when he saw me, and his eyes widened as much as they ever did when he was surprised. For one second, I felt like my old self, slightly apprehensive about what Fletcher would say. But then I remembered I don’t have to give a shit, because I’m already one of the greats. I sat down and ordered an entire bottle of wine, intent on drinking it myself even though I’m dirt poor.

Fletcher just kept shaking his head and told the waiter not to bring it. Fucking prick. Then he leaned forward and told me that I need to get my act together. As if he actually cares about my personal life and well-being instead of just my drumming. Maybe he does, I don’t know. Maybe he’s worried that if he loses ‘me’ he’ll lose my drumming. I felt so goddamn mad at the fact that he put on this caring act that I put down my sticks to curse him out and wave my hands. When he saw them, his face went pale.

“Did you run your fucking hands through a blender, Neiman? Fucking Christ, those aren’t even hands anymore, they’re just bloody goddamn pulps!”

Fletcher deserves an Oscar for how dramatic he was. My hands are fine; it’s not like they’re always bleeding. The problem is that every time I bend them, the blisters and scabs break, so they never have time to heal. It doesn’t matter. Fletcher thought it did, so I told him to screw off and left without eating. Who needs shitty restaurant food in a low class jazz bar anyway? He tried to chase me but I slipped away. God, I hope he doesn’t show up at my door.

I’m not as worried as I was though, and that’s mainly because of the weed. I smoked it, sticks in one hand, joint in the other, and afterwards I felt… feel… better. Mentally, anyway. I feel more relaxed, and the munchies actually help because sometimes I play through the day and forget to eat. The only thing that bothers me is the fact that I feel like I’m not playing as fast, and for some reason that doesn’t bother me as much as it should. My hands still hurt but I don’t _care_ as much. Marijuana… it helps, but it hinders. I need something like it, but something that makes me want to be faster.

 

-A. Neiman


End file.
